


Through the Looking Glass

by xxKalaxx



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Angst. So much Angst, M/M, More tags to be added, Pooka!Jack, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxKalaxx/pseuds/xxKalaxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to break before becoming beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When you wake up the first time (Who _are_ you _?_ ), you're alone. You don't remember a 'Before' (but there has to be) because it seems (like a piece of yourself is missing) wrong. But you pick yourself up and play, because it seems like the right thing to do. You call yourself 'Jack Frost' because it sounds right, and when the people ignore (Because they _have to_ ignore you, it can't be that they can't see you, you're _right there,_ right?) you and you try to touch (and they truly can not see you, they walk through you and it hurts so much like air ripped out of lungs and hearts shredded and broken bones and painpainpainhelppai-) you keep smiling, because it seems to be the right thing to do and keep going (because maybe it was just that one village, it can't be that nobody in the whole world can see you, right?).

You move on and continue flying (because you can do that now, apparently) and eventually (after so many villages and settlements, you've lost count after the first thirty years) you want to give up (but you never were a quitter and so you keep on smiling, even though it hurts how much you crave human touch).

 

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

(Your smile brittles, and you know it, but it's a habit now and you can't stop)

 

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

(Nobody wants to see a broken smile)

 

 

 

 

...

It's almost two hundred years later, and you realise that maybe it's the things making you different from normal people that makes them overlook you (racism is in their nature, after all). So, instead of flying, you walk, instead of spreading frost wherever you go, it (your very nature!) stays locked up tightly, so deep inside of yourself, you sometimes wonder if it's even there. You steal fabric and roughly make a cloac from it, to hide your ears and tail (which you thought normal, until, even after nearly two hundred years, you have not seen a human with even one out of both). It is not perfect, it's not pretty, it isn't even comfortable, but it gets the job done.

People still can't see you.

You keep wearing the cloak and smile anyway.

(hope dies last, after all)

...

You start talking to things, just to have something to talk to. Rocks, trees, hills, it doesn't matter, as long as it keeps back the insanity you can feel lingering just behind the horizon. 

...

Maybe you're dead, you muse. There has to be a reason why people cant touch you (but the dead can't feel pain, and you've been in pain for a long, long time now).

...

Another few decades, and you're ready to give up. You've been alive (or dead, you never really were able to discard that theory) for about two hundred and fifty years, but you've never felt the touch of a living being. Insanity is lingering in the back of your mind (for you were never ment to be alone at all). And it would be so easy, so incredibly easy to give into it. You're tempted to.

( _Smile_ , it whisperes, _smile_ )

You smile.

(And if you break a little on the inside, well nobody can see you and so it doesn't matter)

...

It's in the year 1968, early spring, that you stop smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a snow storm coming. A terrible one, from how twitchy you've felt for the last few weeks. But you knew it was not time for it to hit Europe yet, so you waited. Waited... and feared.

For when the storm finally hit, you know people would die. From the cold or from falling trees or crashing walls or whatever, but they would die. 

You had (tried to warn them) frozen houses and parks, but (they hadn't listened, but why should they? They had never listened to you before) instead of staying inside, like you _tried to tell them_ , they went outside and played in the snow (like idiots).

You even tried to prolong the storm, and it worked for a few hours, but your gut churned and turned and your heart felt like somebody was repeatedly stabing it with a rusty sword. 

(But eventually you have to give in)

The storm breaks.

(People die)

...

In the aftermath, you walk through the ruins of a German village. Your hoodie is up, long ears are pressed flat against your skull. You don't (can't) cry, even as you see a child, stiff and cold, half lying under the rubble of what must have been a house before.

(The world is silent, snow is falling in a mockery of peace.)

...

A scream pierces the frosty silence, full of anguish and heartbreak. Did somebody survive? (But it doesn't matter, now, does it? Even if somebody's alive, they won't be in a few hours. They won't be able to see you, so you won't be able to help) You turn (anyways, maybe, just maybe, they will be the one exeption to the rule? They survived the storm, didn't they?) and slowly, lethargy coating your every step, make your way towards the screaming, which still hasn't stopped (whoever they are, they must be a lot of pain). 

You step over a fallen wall, turn left once, and you see... not what you expected. It's a furry creature, a lot taller than you. It's face is burried in his hands (paws?) in silent anguish. It's shoulders were shaking. Although you know he can't hear you, you need to ask:

»You... All of you... Why didn't you just run away?«

Its shoulders stiffen (but that's just your imagination, isn't it? It can't really hear you, can it?). 

»You caused this? All of this?«

You startle at the sound of his (for the voice is undeniably male) voice. Could he possibly....?

The other slowly turns. The greenest eyes you've ever seen search yours desperately.

Then you're slammed into a wall.

...

 


	3. Chapter 3

After what feels like hours ( _or minutes or seconds or days_ ) of being hit ( _and punched and kicked and scratched and bitten and and and hurt it hurts_ ) you're somehow able to escape.

Your left arm is unresponsive.

Should it be that way?

You're not compleatly sure.

( _Later you think you may have had a concussion_ ) 

Wind gently drops you off on a glacier somewhere. The freezing cold soothes your pained body.

You go to sleep.

* * *

_17th of May; 1968_

_I have tried counting the dead._

_I can't._

_There are just too many._

_Thousands have died in the storm, and more are still dying._

_From hunger, the lingering cold._

_Cannibalism._

_And the people who turn to cannibalism are a whole new batch of problems._

_When people eat their own kind, after a while they.... Change, for lack of a better word._

_Mutate?_

_Corrupt, that's the word I am looking for._

~~_They turn into monsters, whose only purpose is to eat and destr_ ~~

_The humans call them 'Wendigo'._

_They remind me of the Dark Ages._

_[...]_

_North's globe is getting darker._

~~_So many children have died in the storm or, later on, from_ ~~

_We can't intervene. It's forbidden._

~~_Manny, what is happening?_ ~~

_The survivors are loosing faith._

_There is no hope, no wonder left for us._

_Only hopelessness remains._

~~_It's that mans' fault._ ~~

~~_I should have killed him._ ~~

* * *

 

You don't wake up for a long time.

It takes months to heal your ( _broken bones and internal bleeding and sticks and stones can't break your bones but your own species certainly can it is so funny you could cry_ ) wounds.

Your head takes longer.

When you finally do open your eyes, it is autumn. 


End file.
